This Side of Midnight
by gnbrules
Summary: A sleepless night for Sweets, as he thinks about this latest case, his own painful memories, and the fear of falling into an old nightmare. Tag to A Friend In Need, because I think he could use one.


**This Side of Midnight**

**Summary: A sleepless night for Sweets, as he thinks about this latest case, his own painful memories, and the fear of falling into an old nightmare. Tag to A Friend In Need, because I think he could use one. **

It's a sleepless night, his first in awhile. The last time his thoughts kept him awake, they were about Daisy, and how things end, and he was sad, yes, but it wasn't – it wasn't this.

He's spending his night in a kid's bedroom, Parker's leftover things around him, and he's thinking of his own childhood, the scattered memories of violence, fear, and endless apologies. _I'm sorry, I'll behave. Please don't. _Words spoken in a voice too young to even crack, and with a tear-streaked face.

It helps to talk about it. It helps to face it. That's the truth he firmly believes, but it's not the whole truth. The whole truth is that talking about it, facing it, bringing it up again even after a lifetime makes it feel real in a way you can't ignore. You can pretend and distance yourself from it, like it happened to someone else, but then you have to admit to it and it's real again, undeniably so. He's not saying that pretending it's not your story is healthy – he knows better – but sometimes, it's the only way to cope.

He isn't coping well now.

Running fingers through his hair, the red numbers of the digital clock burning against his eyes, changing with every minute, but sleep refuses to come. Or maybe he refuses to let it, because he knows he'll fall into a familiar nightmare of a splitting, bleeding back and the helplessness of a desperate child. He had those dreams for years, even after the adoption, even after he had a loving mother to soothe him when he woke up screaming, even after he had a loving father to take his hand, sit by his bed til he fell asleep, and whisper that _there are no monsters now._

But his parents are dead, he isn't a child, and no one comforts a grown man from nightmares. He wonders, vaguely, what Booth and Brennan would do if he woke up screaming. It almost amuses him. Booth, his weapon drawn, eyes darting around the room for an intruder. Brennan, her logical mind trying to ease itself into wakefulness. Of course, if he woke up Christine, the result would be different. They'd check on him still to make sure he wasn't actually being attacked, he'd mumble a hasty apology, and they'd give him pitying glances and then jump into parent mode to soothe their crying baby girl back to bed.

The red numbers burn his eyes, change again, and he throws the bed sheets off of him as he sits up.

Sleep isn't going to come tonight, not without a little help.

* * *

Booth kisses her forehead as she sleeps soundly, and she snores lightly in response. She swears she doesn't snore - one of these days, he'll have to remember to record her. One of these days, he will.

He slips out of bed, careful not to wake her, and pads across the floor, across the hall, and sneaks like a thief into the nursery. There's a night light glowing in the corner, which is good, because otherwise he's liable to step on any number of toys on the floor. Even so, he very nearly steps on her little stuffed bird, the one that sings the mocking bird lullaby in a high pitched chirping voice, the one that would most certainly wake her up, and her mother, and then he'd be in a mess of trouble. _It's like a minefield, _he thinks, but he makes it to her crib without incident.

Christine is sleeping soundly, peacefully, and he watches her. She's got her mother's beauty, her brains, and by the tiny, almost imperceptible sound of it – her mother's snore. He smiles at the thought.

Unlike someone else in the house, Booth is not thinking about the past. He's thinking about the future, and how he wishes he could hold onto his daughter and never let her go, never have to hand her over to a hard, scary, dangerous world. He will always protect her to the best of his abilities, but it's a cold feeling in his heart to know that sometimes even _his _best might not be enough.

He pushes the thought away, because for now, she's still his baby girl, and he can protect her, watch over her in this moment. They're going to teach her to be smart, and safe, and strong, going to teach her to fight like her mother and father combined, and he's going to pray and trust in God to do the rest.

For now, it's enough, and he presses a kiss to his fingers, then his fingers to her soft, pajama-clad tummy, and turns to face the minefield of toys again, knowing what he needs to do now.

Christine is peacefully asleep, and right in this instant, there's someone in the house that needs him more.

* * *

Sweets maneuvers his way through the darkened house, manages to get to the kitchen without stubbing his toe or knocking his knees against anything. He opens the fridge and squints against the light from within it.

He eyes the contents, finds what he's looking for fairly quickly – Booth's six pack of beer is in its usually place on the bottom shelf, towards the back. Sweets isn't much of a drinker, but right now he thinks a little alcohol might give him just the right amount of drowsy to get him into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

_The answer isn't at the bottom of a bottle, _part of him says.

_Oh, shut up, _the other part says, exasperated.

Yes, he definitely needs sleep.

He grabs a bottle, glances at it, and grabs another for good measure. One beer in each hand, he makes his way back to the living room, settles down onto the couch and places the beers on the coffee table. He switches on the nearby lamp and relaxes slightly. Until –

Footsteps loud enough for him to notice, giving him time to collect himself if needed. Booth gives it as a courtesy, one he himself would appreciate at times.

But Sweets glances up automatically, eyes a little glassy but tearless, face empty of every emotion except mild surprise.

And Booth doesn't know if it was his own intuition or whether he heard Sweets come down the stairs through a haze of half sleep, but_ he_ isn't at all surprised to find the young psychologist awake at this hour. It was a hard case, the kind that sets you on edge and will stir all the dark memories in your own life, make you think about all the pain in the world and in you. The only reason Booth's managed to get any sleep tonight is because he had a beautiful woman beside him, the only woman in the world that could steady his heart with the mere presence of hers.

He knows Sweets has yet to find that kind of happiness.

Booth acknowledges him with a nod. "Hope those aren't both for you," he says, gesturing to the beers.

Of course they are, and Booth knows it, but he's giving him an out. And inviting himself in. "Of course not," says Sweets. "Be my guest...they're yours, anyway."

"And don't you forget it," Booth says with a wry grin. He takes one of the beers and opens it as he settles onto the couch beside Sweets. "Couldn't sleep, huh?"

Something about the question grates. It feels like an obligation, and Sweets doesn't want the pity. He draws himself in, wraps an arm around himself, a defensive position if ever there was one. "Look, we don't have to do this."

Innocent eyes, a voice just gruff enough to make it sound like he doesn't really care - Booth knows how to finesse his way into something, that's for sure. "I'm just making conversation, Sweets," he says, and that's how Sweets knows they've been spending way too much time together – Brennan's been reading too many of his psychology books and Booth has learned to turn the tables. They're going to put him out of a job at this rate.

Sweets takes his own beer, opens it, takes a large gulp. Liquid courage and the ability to forget (if only). But he feels a little guilty at trying to brush Booth off. He's never once doubted Booth's good intentions, and he knows he owes the couple something more than even lodging. Somewhere in the space of five – six years? – they've let him into their little world, and given him a purpose he'd been struggling to find since his parents died. He really does appreciate it more than they know.

"Sorry, Booth," he says finally, and means it. "I - I'm just thinking about Kat," he continues, and it isn't a lie. He _is_ thinking about Kat and all she faced and has yet to face, and in his mind, her struggle is inexorably tied to his own. He told her about the abuse to form a connection, and it bonded them together. As survivors. As victims. He knows there's a difference in those words, in those two points of view, but right now he can't see it.

"It's a tough one," Booth agrees. "I mean...I just think about Christine these days, and I couldn't – you spend their whole childhood trying to shield them from all the bad stuff, and all too soon you have to let them go out into a world not nearly good enough for them."

Sweets wonders what it's like to be a parent, to have so much love and fear all twisted up together inside. And then he remembers that being a good, loving parent is not a given, and not everyone who is blessed with kids deserves them. Booth's father, his own foster father, and all those that abandon, neglect, and abuse. He thinks about how a sizable number of those kids will grow into their parents, and he represses a shiver.

_It's a sick cycle_, he thinks, but then he catches Booth's gaze and mentally adds, _but a breakable one._

What he says is: "You're a good dad, Booth."

A smile, this time genuine. "Thanks, Sweets. I appreciate that."

The silence is more comfortable than either of them thought it would be. Booth settles back onto the couch, rests his leg upon the coffee table, sips his beer. Then he glances at Sweets. "You ever think about having kids?"

Sweets coughs on his beer slightly, unprepared for this new line of questioning. "Me? I'm not – I mean, someday, yeah. I think I'd like to get it right with a girlfriend first, though."

Booth chuckles. "Might help," he agrees.

They settle into silence again, but the words are beginning to burn inside of Sweets as he thinks again about the case, the past, and impossible things. It tumbles out before he can stop it. "I wish I could erase it, you know." Once it's out, his feelings topple over each other, his thoughts come faster, angrier. "I wish I could just erase it all. For Kat, for me, for anyone," he says. He glances at Booth and wonders, because Booth is the image of strong in his mind, a man whose been through too much of pain and war and yet somehow still strong enough to carry everyone else. "Do you ever feel like that, Booth?" It is a question of desperation. He's searching for a connection, some proof that he isn't just a child trying uselessly to wish away the past.

Booth takes a long time to answer, scratches his fingernail against his beer bottle as he thinks it over. "I do. And I think everyone does, to some extent. But we can't rewrite history, and I'm not sure I would if really given the chance. It's part of what made me...me. Listen, Sweets, I'm not going to give you some crap about how it all happens for a reason, because no kid – no person – should ever have to go through that. But it happens regardless, and it reaches a point where we can let it define us, or we can decide not to let it."

Sweets shakes his head, heavy, tired. He's a psychologist and he's supposed to understand, to be able to make sense of it all, but he can't, not right now. Not tonight. "How's Kat going to make it through? How do any of us, for that matter?" Maybe he knows the answer. Maybe he just wants to hear it said.

Booth looks him in the eye, a steady gaze, an answer of warm certainty. "We find someone or something to save us." He lets it sink in for a long moment, then continues. "For me, it was Pops. For you, it was your adoptive parents, right? And for Kat – well, for Kat, it was you."

"I couldn't make it go away for her."

"You listened to her," Booth says in a voice that leaves little room for argument. "And you helped put the man that did it behind bars. Trust me, Sweets. Saving isn't about erasing the past. It's about making someone strong enough to survive the present and look towards the future. And that's enough."

Sweets holds onto it like a lifeline. It's enough. It has to be. He nods because it seems there's nothing left to say.

Booth looks away from him, concentrates on finishing his beer. "I should probably get back to bed," he muses. "Any second now, Bones is going to roll over and take over my side, and then I won't be able to get back into it without waking her, and...well, it's not a pretty story. And get some sleep too, alright? You're always such a grouch when you don't."

Sweets rolls his eyes. "I'll take that into consideration, _Dad." __  
_

"Anytime, _Kid_," Booth says with a wink and a grin, and as he makes his way behind the couch, he pats Sweets shoulder for just a second. It's a subtle move, but they both know it's deliberate. Sweets takes it without mention, but thinks of his father holding his hand at night, and his mother brushing hair out of his eyes, and he thinks of what it means to save someone.

Booth disappears up the stairs, but Sweets sits awhile longer, thinking it all over.

Sometime later, he drags himself to bed, still dreading where he'll find himself when he closes his eyes.

The nightmares, however, don't come.

Instead, he dreams of his father's kind eyes and his mother's soft smile, and he wakes the next morning to the sound of Booth and Brennan making coffee in the kitchen. He smiles into his pillow, somehow just knowing that today will be a better day.


End file.
